


The First Day of Honeymoon

by Nakahara



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, day in the life, just a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7595047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakahara/pseuds/Nakahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock finally decided to say goodbye to their bachelorhood and married each other. They spend their firts day of honeymoon in Brighton now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Day of Honeymoon

John wakes up early. 

After the busy whirlwind day, after the night full of the most pleasant exertion, he believed he would sleep like a log until noon. But that harsh raucous noise is making any slumber impossible now: the sound of Sherlock snoring loudly into his ear.

He makes a face and maliciously buries his palm into Sherlock's awfully dishevelled curls, pulling them slightly.

His lover stirs up at this impulse and blinks confusedly, frowning and complaining in his deep, rumbling voice: "Hey, what was that for?"

"I had to," shrugs John with a cheeky grin. "Our neighbours would otherwise think some bloody sawmill was placed here in our room."

His eyes smile, mischief evident in the lines of his face. His palm already abandoned the unruly jungle of Sherlock's hair and is possessively grasping one of detective's beautifully sculpted thighs at the moment.

Sherlock sits up slowly, stretches his long arms to the sides and flexes his back with languid sensuality, then looks at John coolly: "Sawmill, you say?"

He abruptly inclines to John and kisses him, biting his lips passionately.

John reciprocates and they are soon engaged in very hot activities there. Sherlock, devious and slippery as an eel, tries to gain an upper hand over John at first, but the soldier anticipates every single one of his strategies in this battle and skilfully manages to overpower him. He gently places Sherlock on his belly and secures both of his arms in a firm grip of his hands. He then mounts Sherlock from behind, eager with anticipation.

His member stands at attention all of a sudden, glistening as if freshly oiled. His target, an enticing red orifice placed in marvellous symmetry between two luscious, milky-white buttocks, is still nicely stretched after workout that took place during the night. John doesn't hesitate. He nudges it with his tip, pressing half of his length into it at once.

“Uh… impatient, aren't we?” Sherlock's muffled voice resonates from among the pillows.

John bends over him, carefully maintaining his position inside. He licks Sherlock's ear playfully, forcing him to turn his head to the side that way and after that, he kisses him at the corner of the lips curled into dopey smile.

“Any comments?” he breaths into Sherlock's own erratic breath.

“Comments? Nope. Who gave you that idea?”

“Glad to hear it.” John clasps Sherlock's wrists with some more strength and buries his cock fully into the detective, relishing the feel of his tight ass. Enjoying the moment of his triumph, he stops for a while and watches Sherlock subdued under him, excitement flowing through his veins like live current.

Yesterday, he was patient and gentle, still overwhelmed and adjusting to the idea that he will spend life with his new spouse from now on. But in this very moment, things are different. Now he is just hungry, insatiable. He gives Sherlock a few shallow thrusts to better prepare him. Then, overcome with sudden need and passion, with intensity that lets him taste blood, he slightly improves his position and pumps into Sherlock with abandon, sharp hisses discharged from his throat with every deep thrust.

Sherlock grunts, his milky skin flushed dark red, his lower body shaking with the force of John's rhythm. He squirms as if he was trying to escape from his bonds but John is relentless, sliding the blade of his cock into its warm sheath again and again. Sherlock's animalistic grunts change into low moans quickly and the man trembles with an almost inaudible cry, his muscles clenching powerfully. John senses a rush of wetness on his thighs and near his knees unexpectedly and a hot wave of blood surges over him. He grasps Sherlock's back into a tight embrace and spurts up, discharging his load into the man.

Basking in the intoxicating afterglow, he remains draped over Sherlock for a long while, pressing his sweaty forehead to Sherlock's elegant nape and trying to calm his breath. Still, his member is softening rapidly now and soon, he is forced to disengage, slipping out of his wet nesting place with regret.

Thankfully, Sherlock doesn't let him go. He turns around and takes John into his arms, holding him close. They lay still, nestling against each other and kissing in the pale light of dawn. It feels like eternity.

"Your stubble prickled me," grumbles John afterwards, rubbing his cheeks.

Sherlock, who lies lazily spread on the bed, props himself upon his elbows and flings his head backwards, sticking out his chin: "Shave it then, if you like."

John raises his eyebrows in surprise. But he is secretly delighted: he always wished to do that one day. He takes a razor and after spreading some cream on his face, he carefully shaves Sherlock, delightedly touching his jaw and throat and caressing it in a sensual manner. Sherlock's lids are half-closed as if they were unbearably heavy and he enjoys John's attention, nuzzling his cheekbones against doctor's warm palms like a cat, humming inaudibly.

Sherlock's stubble is safely disposed off for some time by now, but John's hands are still continuing with their pleasant activity. They are stroking Sherlock's pale torso at the moment, inconspicuously descending lower and lower, until John is lightly chafing against a different kind of curls with his fingers.

Due to such proceedings, a dormant part of Sherlock's anatomy had woken up again and is begging for John's attention too.

”I guess you are not tired yet,” remarks John smugly, gently rubbing the pliant spot directly under Sherlock's navel. Sherlock stares at him provocatively, then arches his brows and replies with a voice a shade deeper and lazier than it usually is: „Want to test it?“

The spectacle and the tone are all the prompt John needs and he bossily lays himself on top of his lover. Sherlock, however, has different plans and he enfolds John into a tight embrace, seizes him by the arms, flips him over and descends on the doctor, firmly wrapping him in a cocoon of hot young flesh and lust.

The day verges on midday when those two finally decide to leave their nest of rumpled sheets and pillows all over the place. Thankfully, the bathroom is big enough for two so they can save time, showering together. It's a bit distracting to see Sherlock's fiery silver eyes raking through John's body possessively and John can't declare himself unaffected by the presence of wet and naked Greek demigod standing a mere step away from him, but they finally manage to wash themselves and enter their guest bedroom again to dress before leaving for dinner.

Impromptu morning exercises refreshed Sherlock and he dresses into his designer suit in a flash, fit and keen, bristling with impatient energy. John, who can't keep the pace despite being a soldier, jealously knits his brows and wearily dons on shirt adorned with checkered pattern and his worn out leather jacket.

”And what should we do with that?” He asks, pointing towards the armchair standing in the corner of the room.

The armchair is a disaster. A crumpled box lays on top of it, cream, white chocolate and marzipan leaking from under its squashed up cover in every direction, sticking as a white messy splash on the chair's red velvety surface, paired with incredibly soiled up trousers which hang limply from the backrest. 

Yesterday, slightly dizzy from the wedding feast and faintly drunk on champagne, with John dangling from Sherlock's neck and worrying detective's pulse-point with his lips, they tripped and Sherlock's delicate backside ended on their delicate wedding cake. Well, not so delicate now, both the cake and that lush ass…

Sherlock, sitting on the edge of the bed and lacing up his boots, looks over his shoulder disinterestedly and shrugs: “Room service will be here in the afternoon. They will take care of it.”

”Well, good luck to them,” mumbles John with the last fleeting glance on the devastated chair.

The sky over Brighton is overcast but it's fairly warm outside and so they decide to put good use of their time and to walk to the beach. At least John decides to do that. Sherlock disappears without a trace somewhere. 

After a minute of careful searching, John discovers him in front of the display window of some gloomy little shop. Detective is peeking inside intently and when John approaches, he turns to him with the fascinated glow dancing in his bright slanted eyes.

”John, did you know they have shop in Brighton that makes clothes from road-kill animals?”

”Oh, really?” asks John dryly and critically eyes the front of the shop.

“Yes. Road-kill couture. Sounds fascinating, don't you think? Maybe we could...”

”No.”

”But...”

”No Sherlock, we would not buy those awful gloves made from cat's pelt. And forget that stuffed hedgehog too – I will not stand to have that cadaver on the mantelpiece!”

Sherlock straightens out and screws up his mouth in annoyance: “Spoilsport!”

”Yes. The one you just married.”

They make it to the beach without further accident.

Soon, they sit on the terrace overlooking the stormy sea, observe the flock of sea-gulls gliding over the white-capped waves and listen to the shrill voices of the birds. Sherlock is slowly eating Spaghetti Bolognese and sips Italian white wine while John is heartily devouring full English breakfast accompanied by the pint of good pale ale. Out of custom, they do some small-talk in between.

”It doesn't look like rain, don't you think?” remarks John, happily chewing on the crispy piece of bacon.

”14° of Celsius, north wind at 10 miles per hour, 91% of humidity, 60% chance of precipitation with showers likely in the evening,” replies Sherlock courtly.

”And the food is good too,” notes John with another good bite into the bread.

”The owner of the restaurant is local, served as a postman in the vicinity before opening the business here after retirement. The cook is an Italian, through. Came into UK through Erasmus and ended up marrying a local girl, a daughter of the owner. Saw a lucky chance in joining the business of his English in-laws, since Brighton is full of tourists and a local fare pales in comparison with Italian cuisine. Was successful, put on 20 pounds in three years and had two children with his wife – probably that woman we see in the framed picture over the counter.” Sherlock rattles off a long string of his deductions nonchalantly.

John grins from ear to ear.

”Wrong, Sherlock.” He says smugly. “That woman over the counter is a local starlet. She made a television programme on Brighton some time ago. That's why she hangs in a frame over there.”

Sherlock blushes, frowns and proudly returns to his pasta, mumbling something like “damn, there's always something” under his nose.

John drinks a large amount of his ale in one gulp and tries to tend to his baked beans and scrambled eggs again when Sherlock lightly touches his wrist with the mere tips of his fingers. 

Sherlock's silver eyes flit to the side in a motion quick like a viper's stroke and return to his lovers face. John discreetly follows his glance, right in time to see a young, twenty-something man dressed in impeccable business suit deftly pulling out a purse out of a bag of a female guest. The woman notices nothing, chatting unconcernedly with her friends at the table.

The man turns up to the stairs at the end of the terrace and disappears underground quickly.

”Oh,” John wipes his mouth with a serviette, puts it down and stands up with a crooked smile. “I think I'll go to the loo for a while.”

”OK with me,” quips Sherlock and takes another slow sip from the wine.

John scampers down the stairs, finds the men's room and barges right in. That blasted thief, who is standing by the sink rummaging in the woman's purse, bulges his eyes at him.

”Hello,” says John in a low voice, smiling thinly and ominously.

The man bolts and springs right at John, but the former soldier is well prepared for that and he has the thief lying on the floor in a second with his hands twisted behind his back, doctor's knee pressed into a small of his back. Unsurprisingly, the woman's credit card and a driver's licence were already in the back pocket of the man's trousers. John returns them to the purse and releases his prisoner.

The man jumps out as if his knickers were on fire and is out of the door as quickly as a breeze. John washes his hands in a sink and returns upstairs to his table, taking his place once again.

”You were quick,” remarks Sherlock, eyeing John from above the edge of a desserts menu.

”Yeah,” agrees John and secretively hands the purse over to Sherlock there under the table, their hands masked by the long tablecloth.

Sherlock stands up majestically and stretches into his full height. 

”It's my turn, then,” he rumbles in a deep voice and he turns up to the door, bumping into a chair of another guest by accident.

”Oh, excuse me,” he apologises and smoothly runs away down the stairs. John smiles appreciatively as he watches Sherlock's long thin fingers slipping the purse back into the woman's bag. 

Later in the evening, the detective and his doctor are sitting in the portable chairs on the beach strewn with mead-coloured gravel and watch the dark horizon far, far behind the sea. The air is scented with a vernal aroma of an approaching rain. In the twilight, Sherlock is raising his hand again and again, observing a simple, unadorned band of gold stuck on his ring finger with morbid fascination.

”So what do you think, Sherlock,” inquires John who fiddles with a paper cup full of ale in his lap. “Do you hate marriage as strongly as before, now?”

”Not enough data yet,” replies Sherlock and closes his eyes, scratching the nape of his neck absentmindedly. “Still, I cannot congratulate you on the choice of your partner, John. He is irresponsible and obstinate and will inadvertently draw you into danger.”

”Oh, that's all right with me,” comments John unconcernedly and inclines his head quite close to Sherlock's, staring intently into the pale eyes that opened again and darkened in thrill. “You know that I crave danger.”

Those full red lips adorned with cupid bow are surprisingly soft and taste like ripe cherries.

THE END


End file.
